Untreated Wounds | Sirius Black

Chapter 12

I felt like my only option was to run from my problems. To run from the idea that my mother was tortured by my own father. He should've just killed her. He should've just killed her so she didn't have to undergo that pain again. But as I sat at the black lake, a joint of rolled weed in my grasp as I felt the high overcome me.

It was nice. Feeling my brain numb so easily. Felling the tears that ran with my mascara begin to feel useless. The feeling of not feeling anything. I'd learned to love that feeling. Because I knew my tears were weak. That was what my mother always said.

I didn't like the feeling of my mascara drying on my cheeks but I loved the feeling of not even being able to feel them. With numb cheeks and blurry vision. With the loss of reality. I liked losing touch with reality. It was almost dark. But I wasn't scared because I didn't feel anything. Only a funny tingly in my fingertip. Maybe it was from the cold but I didn't care.

My mother was never a good person. Nor was my father. What made me any better?

I sat in the dark, smoking weed alone with no care for my life. I couldn't see straight but I didn't care. I starved myself for days on end before I'd eat no stop but I didn't care. I repeated that cycle a lot. I'd vomit up all that food. I blamed not eating on my nausea. The idea of eating certain foods made me gag.

Sirius was right when he said I was afraid of food. Who could be afraid of food? It was food? My cold hands and shivering body said something else. The hair I watched fall out said something else. My missing period and irregular cycle said something else. The urge to count calories to make sure I wasn't eating too much-said something else. The exercising for hours on end on an empty stomach in order to feel I was allowed to eat said something else...

I could blame my mother for it. I could blame her for telling me I shouldn't eat so much from such a young age. Commenting on it and critiquing it. But it was me who stopped eating. It was me that lost an unhealthy amount of weight. I liked putting the blame on other people. How on earth could it be my fault? But it was my fault. The reason why my mother and father were torn apart.

Because I was the one who ran away. I ran because I remember a glass being thrown at my head for the first time. It was aimed at my mother, but it hit me. I didn't know if my father felt sympathy as it shattered on my forehead at nine years old. He'd thrown anything at me like that. I remember feeling the blood and I remember screaming.

I remembered looking at my father. He had cold eyes. It was then I ran. I ran from them. It was maybe nine at night. With a bleeding head and my father after me, I didn't stop running. It was an impulse decision.

My mother and father never loved each other. They never really loved me. I was supposed to be a boy. And I s'pose my father hated me for being a girl. I didn't really know what I did to deserve the wounds I received when I child, maybe it was because I wasn't a boy. 

But that was out of my control, did I really deserve to bleed just because I was a girl? There had to be more to it. Surely, there was another reason my mother and father despised me so much. Was it because I looked like them? They hated each other, did they hate me because I was their creation? 

My uncle was the only one that didn't make me bleed when I was young. I knew now that it was because I was his heir and that he was truly just exploiting me. Still, Voldemort protected me better than my mother and father ever had. I mean, Voldemort saved me from Greyback. The night my father got bitten, the only reason that I was not mauled and raped by that beast was that Voldemort saved my life instead of my father's. 

I was nine. I was just trying to protect my mother from my father's wrath in the kitchen. "Leave her alone, Dad!" I'd screamed at him. For punishment, his bottle of beer was smashed over my head and I decided then that I was going to run. Through the dense forests of South Ireland at almost nine in the evening. My father chased after me but I knew that if he caught me, I'd have been left bloody.